Burning roses by the sea,
A fragrant smoke that all can see.
A child plays in the rising tide.
Its mother, her fears, in God doth confide.
A beautiful thing, burnt, no more.
Priceless lives we all adore.
Courage to go into the waves
Does nothing for one who waits on the shore.
Posted in Life (or something like it)
Tagged burn, child, God, mother, poem, poetry, priceless, rose, shore, tide, waves
And to the budding rose,
This question I do pose:
“Why did He make you so,
Beautiful, divine, and altogether sublimed?”
Searching within my mind
The answer I then find:
Just to make something fine;
To bless the world with beauty.
With all that it could be.
Transcendent fire on the forest floor
Lifts one higher than before.
Not unlike dust in the wind,
Smoke curls in and out again.
Rising above the trees below
She sees the ashes she did sow.
And in destructions wake it seems,
A moment to take and slowly breathe.
The pale rose sunset against a sky too long,
Ushers in a dimmer dawn.
No use in asking ashes “What if?”
She lifts herself to give the sky a kiss.
Artwork by loish at http://www.loish.net